


What's a Girl to do?

by waldafrey (HurricanesatDawn)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Heterosexual Sex, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricanesatDawn/pseuds/waldafrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S05e06. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. </p>
<p>The morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's a Girl to do?

Their wedding night was nothing short of sheer horror and pain. She’d expected that. She’d expected that it would hurts worse than anything she had ever felt before. She’d expected that there’d be nothing she could do and that she wouldn’t be able to stop it. It’s what one of the girls that had served in King's Landing had told her once.

A visiting nobleman’s son had taken her maidenhead, she’d said. _It’s alright, though_ she’d said, _my mother always told me that it would happen this way. You don’t grow up pretty and get away without it happening. Sometimes you don’t even have to be pretty. And better if it’s a noble. He might like you, she told me. He might like you enough to keep you around, give you money and fine things. Just don’t fall in love._

She’d said, _mother didn’t say just how much it would hurt, but it does. It feels like something’s ripping open your insides and leaving them on the ground next to you. But it gets better after that. After the first time. The first time always hurts._ She’d giggled, seemingly not bothered by the memory. _And then after that, it feels better. I’d do it every day if I could. You may not think it on your wedding night, but you’ll end up liking it, I promise. Just remember to please him. But don’t bore him. Don’t ever let him get bored. You can’t just lay there. You have to keep him interested or he’ll find someone else._

Sansa had been horrified at the time. The thought of it had made her sick to her stomach and then some.

It’s what she’d expected the night she married Tyrion Lannister. She’d trembled as she took off the top portion of her dress, panic in her throat, making it hard to breathe. But he’d not touched. Not that night, not any night. And yes, she’d been relieved. She’d been so relieved she couldn’t bare it.

But part of her hated him for it. What kind of wife remained with her maidenhead after months had passed? What kind of wife didn’t please her husband, no matter how she loathed him? And maybe the girl hadn’t been lying. Maybe she was telling the truth when she said that it would get better.

When Ramsay Bolton bent her over her childhood bed, the back of her wedding gown ripped apart and forever ruined, she wished then that Tyrion hadn’t spared her the way he had. It hadn’t been the mercy he thought it was. Hot tears burnt down her cheeks now, choking back on her sobs to keep him from hearing them. She didn’t want him to hear her cry. He might think her less than she was.

And she is Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. She has ice in her veins, and she is strong. Stronger than the pain that seems to swallow her up from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair. She is stronger than the shame that pours through her at the knowledge that the man who killed her little brothers is watching. She is stronger than every searing thrust that rips her apart and leaves her shuddering.

~~~~~~

The next morning, she wakes up first. It should be a surprise, but it isn’t. He looks different when he’s sleeping. Less severe. Less like he might hurt her. Part of her believes what the girl had said now, when she warned her about all the girls that her husband had previously had and then thrown away.

But he is her husband now and she will not fear him. She will not fear a bastard, legitimized or not. He will not rule over her the way that men have before.

She sheds the rest of her gown now, careful not to wake him as she leaves the bed. He’ll wake up later, but she has preparing to do first.

She will not light that candle in the tower. Not today. Not tomorrow.

Instead she rubs lotions into her skin, soothing the burn from his fingernails. She lets loose her hair that had remained tucked away through the night, letting it fall freely down the expanse of her back. Between her legs is a dull, painful ache, but she thinks not of it now, relieving herself in the chamber pot and washing the lower portion of her body. She cleans away the dried blood and makes herself smell good again, like warm winter berries, and lays out the dress she’s going to wear.

The fire hasn’t quite gone out so she stirs at it, adding another log and prodding at it until it comes back to life, restoring the warmth to the room.

There’s a lump in her throat now, that she swallows back, refusing to give in to it. She feels so strange completely naked, but now is not the time for that. She is not a girl anymore. She is a woman, the Wardeness of the North. She knows no fear.

Instead, she knows the way his body stirs and begins to slowly waken from his slumber.

This is something she’s never done before, but she’s heard of it. Mostly whispers in the corners of long corridors, never anything directly, but she knows of it enough that she can somewhat tell what she’s doing as she pulls back the heavy blankets and takes in the sight of his nakedness.

He’s not a bad looking man, though she finds no real pleasure in his form. There are scars that litter his chest and thighs, his stomach is taut with muscle, and his body looks like that a warrior. Someone dangerous. Though not as dangerous as some she’s met.

The thing between her legs is the most alien to her. It’s the first time she’s seen one. In a word, it’s strange. Long and hardened, slightly red as it twitches against his belly. It’s the sort of thing she’s heard in threats before. The one eyed snake. The bone that rules a man’s heart and mind. A man’s greatest weakness.

Which always reminds her of Queen Cersei’s words that night, when King’s Landing was attacked and she thought she was going to die.

She’d said _tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs._

She can understand that now, to some degree. It looks angry. Like a wild animal that has to be fed and feared, else it’ll get into the chickens.

The thought makes her giggle. False courage enough that it’s only her heart beating madly as she bends down to take the tip of it into her mouth.

He smells like sweat and anger, but it’s not so bad, not as bad as she thought it might be. It’s big, but she can fit her lips around it, sliding carefully down the shaft to the halfway point. In his sleep, she hears him groan something, a word or perhaps a name, but she ignores it.

_You can do this,_ she tells herself. _You are strong._ She makes herself take the whole thing, gagging just a little, but she remembers to relax her throat, shuddering around it. It doesn’t feel as horrible inside her throat as it did between her legs. This isn’t so bad, really.

She sucks, bobbing slowly up and down, taking him down to the root and then back up. Her hair slides down to her face but she tangles her fingers through it, slicking it back, and glances up.

He’s awake now, staring at her, eyes wide with something that has to be shock.

It makes her still, but only for a second. This is where it counts the most. Instead of pulling off, she gives him the most innocent look she can muster, and sinks down to the root again. He gasps, hands flying up to meet on her head, catching her hair. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to force her to stay down, but he doesn’t. He guides her, bringing her up and down at a steady, quickening pace. It’s harder to suck the faster she goes, but it’s not so bad.

By accident, she scrapes the edges of her teeth along the shaft, but instead of yelling out in pain, he grunts, his shaft twitching in her mouth.

_Oh._ He must like that. She does it again, harder this time, watching as his eyes roll back into his head for a few seconds. It makes her smirk, going down faster without prompting, and staying there for a long, drawn out moment. There seem to be no words on his lips at that, only the twitching of his body below hers.

She understands now. It doesn’t make sense as to why, but she understands what women have always meant when they said that it’s them that have power that men can’t see.

Out of nowhere, he groans raggedly, fingers tightening as he pumps sharply, and she can feel him pulsing, shooting down her throat. Some of it doesn’t go all the way down and she can taste it, slimy and sickly, but she swallows around him dutifully, licking away any trace of it until his entire body is shuddering and he’s batting her away from his softening shaft.

She gives it a kiss before she pulls away, close mouthed and wet, a loud smacking sound in the otherwise quiet room. Crawling up his body, she presses a second kiss to his cheek. “Husband,” she murmurs in greeting. “Good morrow to you.”

He’s still laying there, panting, when she pulls away and slides off the bed, turning away from him.

“Gods above,” he curses at her retreating form, making her smirk. She turns her head to glance at him.

“You flatter me, husband,” she purrs at him, pouring herself a drink from the pitcher. “You make it sound like you’ve never had anyone do that to you before.” Hesitating a second, she pours a second, one for him. Carrying one in each hand, she saunters over to the bed, placing on the table beside him, and sits down on the bed.

“I only knew how it worked in theory,” she tells him, a hand on his chest, smirking as she drinks from her goblet. “But I assumed it wouldn’t be your first experience with it, given your knowledge last night.”

“Theory?” He asks, disbelief spit from his lips, seeming more insulted by the implication that she had never done it before than by her subtle jibe at him. “You expect me to believe that you were unflowered before last night after a show like _that,_ dear wife of mine?”

She rolls her eyes, tossing back the rest of her goblet before discarding it, hair tumbling backwards with her twisting neck. “Look at the bed linens, husband,” she instructs, “if you don’t believe you took my maidenhead. You were there, could I have faked it?”

A snarl twists from his lips, turning his previously solemn face into one of poorly masked cruelty. “Maidenhead, maidenhead, sure, you still had that. But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have done _other things_ before me. Like _that.”_

Eyes meeting his, she smiles reassuringly at him, lifting a hand to caress a the side of his face. “I am yours, dear husband,” she cooes at him, “only you have ever had me and as far as I am concerned, only you ever shall. I shall bear your sons and your daughters. The name Bolton will prosper with our union.” The twinkle in her eye almost seems to mock him as she leans in close, kissing him, biting at his lips. She suspects that he might like that, given his show earlier, and she seems to be right.

His hand comes up to cup her head, kissing her back roughly, holding her in place. She doesn’t struggle, doesn’t fight it, only forcing herself to melt against him, a hand on the side of his neck, and one caressing his chest.

And then she’s gone, pulling away from him, leaving him laying there, a dull look in her eyes. “Your Lord Father has requested our presence for the breaking of our fast, husband.” While she could call a servant to help her dress, she shudders to think that it might mean that girl will come back, so she dresses herself, sliding on the layers of soft robe until she’s fully covered, tying her own hair back without so much as glancing over at him.

Only when she’s finished does she look at him again. He hasn’t moved, sharp eyes watching her every move. “Shall I ask him to excuse you this morrow, My Lord?”

“No,” he tells her. And, “go, I’ll follow shortly.”

She curtsies, dipping her head low with respect before she flits out of the room. “I look forward to it, My Lord,” she murmurs at him before she’s gone.

The moment she’s gone, her entire body floods with shuddering relief.

One day down. A million more to go.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Because I refuse to believe that she's going to let herself be the broken little girl again. Nope.
> 
> (I own nothing. Don't hate.)


End file.
